Angels We Have Heard
by Mar Komi
Summary: Mal teams up with Simon to search for some hidden crates on the ice planet of St. Albans. They find something else instead.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: _**_This Christmas special is, as the observant reader would notice, a tie-in with last year's, "The Night Before". You might say it's the story about what happened in the meantime. Enjoy and Merry Christmas!_**  
**

* * *

**Angels We Have Heard**

As Malcolm Reynolds punched the button to open the cargo bay door, he caught sight of the digits blinking on the panel next to his hand, showing the local time, and saw that it was almost nine in the morning. Never having been a big sleeper (and in particular not since the war), he'd been up for several hours already, but as the door opened and icy cold wind came blowing inside, he longed to be snuggled up back in his bunk. Preferably with a bottle.

Wrapping his scarf one more time around his neck, he squinted out at the landscape outside and frowned.

If you wanted a white Christmas, St. Albans certainly delivered. There was no shortage of snow on a planet where the winter lasted for ten months and 'summer' meant the temperatures occasionally spiked above 32 degrees.

Problem was, Mal didn't want a white Christmas.

In fact he didn't want Christmas at all.

Not counting Unification Day, it was his least favorite holiday, and if it had been solely up to him, he'd taken _Serenity _far into the Black and just stayed out there until the crazy had passed. That was precisely what they'd done the first time around; back when it had just been him and Zoë and Wash and Bester. But then Kaylee had arrived on the scene, and she always got homesick this time of year and so, to cheer her up – just because he loved her and cared about her so much – he'd allowed a small celebration, though limited to a tiny, crooked evergreen in the cargo bay, a dinner and perhaps a few presents.

He'd promised her a celebration this year as well, though she _had_ been more reluctant than usual to ask for one, seeing as it would be their first Christmas after Miranda and the first Christmas without Wash and Book. Surprisingly, in the end it had been Zoë who'd insisted. The alternative, she said, was to just sit around and glare, and even though Mal guessed she would've been fine with that, he agreed with her it wasn't fair to the others. And so Kaylee was busy with the last preparations, even though Christmas was still a couple of days away, and because she always found the bright side to _everything_, she seemed to _love_ the fact that they were spending the holidays on a winter world. Growing up on Harvest, the young mechanic had probably not seen many white Christmases in her life, but she was among those people who gladly delved into the whole cliché if they could have it.

White Christmas.

Mal shuddered. The white didn't bother him, but the white always came with the cold, and he was certainly no fan of the cold. His home world had been a temperate planet, and after the war he'd spent most of his time in the controlled environment of a spaceship, and so he wasn't used to it.

_None_ of his crew was used to it, come to think of it. Except Jayne, of course. _His _home planet, Paquin, had fairly cold winters, Mal mused, especially in the northern parts from where his mercenary hailed. Though even _he_ had seemed bothered by the weather the night before when they had returned from yet another fruitless attempt at finishing their current job, especially because he'd lost his jacket. Long story.

It was a job that had brought them to St. Albans, of course, one you would have to be desperate to actually take. And Mal was desperate. Jobs didn't come as easy as before (as if they had ever come _easy_), and so when Bernoulli had offered it to him, he'd had no choice but to accept it.

They were to find some merchandise left here by smugglers. Easy enough at first glance but problem was, nobody really knew exactly where it was hidden, because the people who'd actually done the hiding had all since died. Bernoulli only knew it was 'in a cave a few miles outside _some _village _somewhere _on the eastern continent'. Detailed directions indeed, Mal sarcastically thought to himself as he threw another glance at the watch. This would be their fifth stopping place and the fifth village in as many days.

The digits now blinked 09:05, and Mal felt his irritation rise. A little because he'd told Jayne to be ready at nine, but mostly because he just wanted this gorram job to be done with, and so when he heard footsteps approaching he was more than ready to bite someone's head off. Realizing it was Zoë, though, he managed to stop himself.

He was walking on eggshells around his first mate these days. She had lost her husband, and then discovered that she was pregnant with his child, a circumstance that would have made _anyone_ flip out a little, but of course Zoë wasn't. She was caught in that strange void between all-consuming grief and great joy, but she never let it show, and Mal really didn't know how to deal with that. For the first time in all the time he'd known her, she was difficult to be around.

He couldn't think of anything smart and meaningful to say this time either, so he just nodded curtly and then turned around to punch the button on the PA. "Jayne!" he hollered into the mic. "Get your _pigu _down here, we're leavin'!"

Zoë stopped next to him, her arms wrapped tightly around her body to shield herself from the cold. "We could go with you, you know," she said. "Me and Kaylee. Help you cover more ground."

"No." His reply was short and instant, and she had expected it; he could easily see that, despite her lack of facial expression. "No," he repeated, a little softer, "Jayne and I got this. Kaylee's busy with all things Christmas-y, and you… Well, you just stay here."

She tilted her head a little to the side, but her face stayed the same. "Simon says it's alright for me to work, you know. As long as it doesn't involve shooting, punching or kidnapping. _His_ words, not mine."

"Well," Mal retorted, "our jobs have a way of ending up including at least _one_ of those scenarios, don't they?"

He saw the hint of a smile fall across her lips as she shrugged, "True enough."

Feeling that strange and yet by now so familiar sense of awkward fall between them again, and desperate to get rid of it, he finally saw a way to use Jayne's absence to his own advantage. "Now where the hell _is _he?" he exclaimed. Embracing the opportunity for welcomed distraction, he slammed his fist down on the bay door button to close it again and made his way up the staircase towards the crew quarters. "Jayne!"

Zoë followed suit, not even the slightest hindered by her growing belly. "You even seen 'im today?" she asked as they rounded the corner into the hallway and stopped by the hatch to the said man's room. "'Cause I haven't."

Mal didn't answer, just pounded on the door with his hand. "Jayne!" he yelled, "Get up here!"

There was no response, and suddenly an uneasy feeling in his gut told him just how _wrong_ that was. Glancing over at Zoë and seeing the serious look on her face, he knew she was thinking the same thing: Jayne had his flaws, but being late wasn't one of them.

Reaching for the keyboard hanging on the wall, he punched in the captain's override code, and when he heard the hiss from the door as the lock released, he used his foot to kick it open. "Jayne?" he called again, but didn't pause to wait for an answer before quickly sliding down the ladder.

At least the man was alive. The sound of heavy and strained breathing told him that right away. He was on the cot, curled up, shaking and shivering, tugging at a thin sheet that did nothing for him, and Mal didn't have to touch him to know he was really, really sick. He put the back of his hand against the man's forehead anyway, and grimaced at the heat. With a sigh he turned his head back towards the ladder, "Zo', get the doctor!"

Jayne winced at the sudden outcry but didn't wake, and Mal suppressed another sigh as he tugged off his winter jacket. He was annoyed by this unplanned turn of events, but also felt a bit badly for being annoyed, which left him all messed up inside. Jayne suddenly coughed and it was a _bad_ cough; it sounded like his lungs were about to be ripped apart, and gripped by a sudden surge of sympathy and tenderness, the captain looked around for another blanket and found one lying neatly folded on a chair –

Jayne was _tidy_, wasn't he? Funny how he kept seeing new sides to his people these days, Mal thought to himself as he draped the blanket over the freezing form on the cot.

Funny how Miranda had changed everything, when it really hadn't changed anything at all_._

Funny how he kept pondering these questions…

Simon arrived with his medical bag, and Mal stepped out of his way while he did his thing. The doctor didn't even talk to him, but he spoke softly to Jayne now and then, giving him instructions, and at least sometimes the mercenary seemed to react to this and followed orders, which of course made the whole scenario all the more scarier.

Eventually Simon stood, pulled his stethoscope from his ears and turned to finally address the captain. "It's pneumonia," he said. "Double-sided."

Mal closed his eyes for a moment. "Well, Jayne never does anything half way, does he now?"

Simon wasn't smiling. "I believe it's bacterial," he simply continued as he carefully folded up his equipment and put it back into his bag. "I'll draw some blood to make sure, and put him on some antibiotics." He started making his way towards the ladder again.

"What about the job?" Mal asked him.

The doctor stopped. "What job?"

"I have a job waiting. The only reason we're on this gorram ice rock, remember?"

"Well, _I_ won't keep you."

Mal glanced towards the cot where Jayne was having another one of his violent coughing fits. Simon followed his eyes. "Surely you're not expecting _him_ to go with you?" he said.

Mal bit his lip, knowing very well how unreasonable he sounded. "It's not a one-man job," he explained through gritted teeth.

"Well, it doesn't matter," Simon plainly said, full of that confidence he always displayed when he was in doctor-mode, "'cause he's not going anywhere for at least a _week._" He put his hand on the ladder as if to start climbing.

"If we can't finish this…" Mal began.

"What are you really expecting me to do?" the doctor interrupted him, his voice laden with impatience and annoyance. "Look at him, for heaven's sake! He's got a hundred-and-three point five temperature. _This,_" he pointed towards the cot, "is what happens when you walk around in the snow in your t-shirt! I don't have some magical pill to just fix it."

Mal felt his shoulders slump as all his energy seemed to leave him. Sighing for the umpteenth time he glanced up the ladder towards the closed hatch. "Mayhaps Kaylee could…"

"No," Simon sounded strict and firm as if _he_ was suddenly in command. "_I'll_ come with you."

Mal raised his eyebrows and looked at him, disbelievingly. "Huh?"

"You just need an extra pair of eyes to look for some crates, right? We're not fighting anyone?"

"Well, we're not _planning _to."

"See? I'm sure I can handle it."

Mal threw another look in Jayne's direction. "Don't you have a patient to look after?"

"There's only so much I can do for him," Simon honestly replied. "Once I get him settled, Zoë and Inara can look after him just as well as _I _can."

"Hm," Mal muttered, somewhat amazed to find himself actually considering this option. Realizing he really didn't have a choice, he eventually agreed, "Okay, fine."

He longed for the bunk and the bottle again.


	2. Chapter 2

Once more Mal found himself standing in the cargo bay doorway musing out into the whiteness, cursing the fact that he had to venture into it. Footsteps and voices coming from the catwalk overhead told him Simon was about to join him, and he turned his head to at least greet him with a glance. He arrived together with Zoë and was giving her his last instructions.

"Keep an eye on his breathing and his temperature," Mal heard him say as they came to a rest next to him. "Now, the fever's there for a reason, it'll help him get better sooner, but you should check it regularly and if it gets much higher, give him this."

He put something small wrapped in white plastic in the palm of Zoë's outstretched hand, and there was pause as she studied the tiny object. She then glanced back up at him, still not revealing any emotion whatsoever. "Does this go where I think it does?" she calmly asked.

Mal shuddered, thinking for a moment that he might have drawn the longest stick after all. Simon looked both embarrassed and apologetic at the same time. "Er, yes," he admitted.

Zoë remained collected as always. "Lovely," she dryly responded and just turned to face Mal instead. "Good huntin', sir, and be careful, both of you."

Mal nodded. "We'll be on radio, if the weather allows it. If you haven't heard from us by tomorrow morning, take the shuttle and do a sweep-over."

"Will do."

"Tomorrow?" Simon repeated, eyes wide with worry.

"Having second thoughts?" Mal asked, then punched him lightly in the back. "We'll be fine. Let's get goin'. We only have a few hours of so-called daylight left."

They stepped out into the snow and as Zoë closed the door behind them, they started trotting their way through it. Mal threw Simon a sideways glance and noticed that the doctor for once had dressed correctly for the occasion. He was wearing his thickest wool coat and moved like he had at least two pairs of pants on. His head and face were almost completely concealed by a knitted cap and a scarf, and he had mittens on his hands. Most importantly, and somewhat surprisingly, his feet were sporting a decent pair of winter boots and not his ridiculously shiny shoes.

"Didn't know you even owned a pair of snow shoes," Mal commented.

"I don't," was Simon's reply. "These belonged to Wash. Zoë lent them to me."

Okay, so much for a nice conversation… Funny how every little exchange of words ended up being awkward these days.

He decided to keep quiet for a while.

* * *

Simon was beginning to regret volunteering for this task. The white plain they were in the process of crossing seemed endless in every direction, and he kept glancing over at the captain to see how he studied his map and compass, hoping it didn't just _look _like the man knew how to navigate in this place.

He tried to retract his head even deeper down into his coat. The wind was freezing cold, it kept finding new ways through all the layers of clothes to nip at his bare skin beneath, and his toes were like ice, despite the good shoes he felt quite honored to wear. He was careful not to complain, though. It was time he did more than just stitch and cauterize around the ship, and what kind of man would he be if he'd let Kaylee out into this frozen hell instead of him? At least the snow was compact and relatively easy to walk on.

None of them had spoken for a long time, but now Mal seemed to finally notice how Simon kept watching him, and eventually he opened his mouth to talk, "Jayne has been coughing for nearly a week, I know, I _did _notice," he said. "I shouldn't have forced him out into the cold."

Underneath his hat, Simon raised his eyebrows, wondering why on Earth-that-was the captain was bringing this up and if maybe the looks he'd been throwing him had appeared a little more accusing than intended.

"I was under the impression nobody could ever force Jayne to do anything," he simply replied. "This one's not on you. You know what he's like, he never complains about aches and pains."

"Yeah," Mal mumbled, "in his line of work that would be a bad thing. A mercenary can't afford to appear weak."

Simon thought on that for a few moments before agreeing, "I suppose that makes sense. He shouldn't have to keep playing that game around us, though. It makes my job a lot harder than it has to be."

"Mayhaps that's why he does it?"

Simon heard himself chuckle at that remark, and stopped long enough to throw a short glance back over his shoulder. He could no longer see the ship.

"Where exactly are we headed?" he asked.

Mal gestured ahead. "According to the map there's some rocky hills in that direction. Maybe we'll find our caves there."

Simon couldn't help himself. "If we know where we're going, why not take the shuttle?"

"Don't wanna draw too much attention to ourselves," the captain explained. "Not this close to the village."

"What village?"

"It's right here, on our right hand side. 'Bout three hundred yards."

Simon stopped and turned to look, but saw nothing but the white. "I don't see it."

"You don't see the smoke from the chimneys?" Mal pointed, and now he did.

"Where are the houses?" he asked, even though the answer was quite obvious.

Mal offered a reply nonetheless. "Underneath the snow, I suppose."

Simon shook his head in disbelief. "Good God, why would anyone choose to live like this?"

Mal kept his eyes intently on him for a few more seconds, before turning his head away as he continued walking. "They don't," he muttered, and as Simon hurried after him throwing him a puzzled look, he elaborated, "Most people here on St. Albans come from either Hera or Persephone. During the war those were the Independents' most important planets, along with Shadow, and when the war was lost they were taken over by the Alliance, who _'relocated' _a lot of families here. And here they're forced to remain until they've paid their war debts, which I guess will take about five or six generations at the current rate."

"I… I didn't know."

"I didn't expect you to."

There it was again, that sting in the captain's voice whenever he, if ever so discreetly, hinted at Simon's Core upbringing. He quelled the urge to bring up that discussion now, though. "Like your friend Tracey?" he asked instead.

"Like him," Mal replied. He walked a few more paces before adding, "And they were the lucky ones. Shadow they just killed."

Simon bit his lip as he quietly kept trotting in his captain's footsteps. There were still days when he longed for that blissful ignorance he'd once lived in.

Suddenly the silence between them was pierced by a voice calling out behind them. They immediately stopped in their tracks to look back towards the village, shielding their eyes against the bright light reflected on the snow, and spotted a lone figure waving his arms at them. When he noticed he had their attention, he came running towards them, and in the corner of his eye, Simon saw the captain draw his gun, but luckily he didn't raise it.

As the stranger approached them, Simon was able to distinguish the words he was shouting, "Friends, friends, where you headed? You shouldn't be out here, there's a blizzard comin'!"

_Blizzard? _Simon frowned. The world around him was dead quiet. There was not even the slightest hint of an approaching storm.

"You sure?" Mal called back, as the man came to a halt about twenty yards away from them. He was bundled up in thick clothes; Simon couldn't see his face, but he guessed he seemed harmless enough.

"Absolutely," was the answer. "Trust me, you learn to read the signs over the years."

Simon looked at Mal, who had put his gun back inside its holster but still kept his hand resting on the handle. He nodded. "Well, I'd be a fool not to trust the locals," he called back. "Thanks for the warning, my friend. We'll head back to our ship."

"How far?" the stranger asked.

"'Bout three miles east."

The man shook his head. "You won't make it in time. Come on inside, you can wait here until it passes."

Simon heard Mal mutter something behind his scarf before he turned to look at him. "Don't seem like we have much of a choice, Doc. Come on."

They walked up to the man who held out his arm to greet them. "John Hensley," he introduced himself as Mal shook his hand.

"Malcolm Reynolds," Mal replied and pointed with his thumb, "and this here's Simon."

"Welcome. Let's get out of the cold."

That sounded like a really good idea to Simon, and he hurried after Hensley and the captain as they made their way to the supposed village. He could scarcely make out the buildings as they got closer; they were mostly buried by the snow, you didn't see much more than the long, slim chimneys puffing out smoke towards the sky.

Hensley suddenly stopped and bent down to pull open a hatch Simon hadn't even been able to see until now. "Please," he gestured down into the hole that appeared beneath it, and Simon followed his captain down a ladder into a narrow hallway. Hensley came down last, securing the hatch behind him and then led the way to a door. "Jen, I brought guests," he called out as he opened it.

The room they entered was not much bigger than _Serenity'_s galley, but Simon counted at least fourteen people there, some seated by the tables, some on beds and cots along the walls, and a handful of children playing with marbles on the floor in front of the fireplace. A woman in her early thirties came towards them with a welcoming smile on her face and a worried look in her eyes. "Please, please come in," she urged. "It's warmer by the fire. Children, make room for our guests."

Simon didn't even have time to protest or even react before he was ushered towards the fireplace – where the children picked up their toys and scattered to observe him from a distance, wide-eyed and curious – and another, older woman pulled out chairs for him and the captain.

He got a better look at Hensley now as he'd pulled off his hat and scarf; he seemed a lot younger than he'd first appeared as he introduced the rest. "My wife Jennifer," he gestured towards the youngest of the women, then pointed at the older, "Mary, my mother-in-law," to three of the children, "my sons, Tom and Aaron, and my daughter Ellie," and finally at another man sitting on a cot in the corner, "and my brother, Richard. The rest are friends and neighbors. We like to huddle together when the weather's bad; saves us fuel and there's comfort in numbers."

Simon nodded and stiffly sat down on the chair when Mary gently nudged him. He pulled his mittens off and held his frozen fingers up to the fire, glancing up at Mal to see if he was about to join him.

The captain was always wary towards new people, which was perfectly understandable, come to think of it, but he seemed relaxed enough to take his seat and respond to all the greeting nods he received from various people around the room. "I couldn't reach Zoë," he whispered to Simon when everyone else was out of earshot. "Must be the weather."

"We'll be okay," Simon replied, as if the man really needed _his _reassurance.

"Yeah," the captain mumbled, throwing a discreet glance in Richard Hensley's direction, "we'll be okay."

* * *

_**A/N: **This story's turning out a little longer than first intended, but then again, in some cultures Christmas is celebrated in January, so bear over with me ;-)_

_- MK_


	3. Chapter 3

Mal didn't stay in his chair for long. These folks seemed friendly enough, but he'd never let down his guard in a stranger's house and he wasn't about to start now. He got to his feet and started moving around the room, and then realized how pointless it would seem to the others, as the room was small and there wasn't that much space to move in anyway, and so he ended up by the big dining table in the middle of the room, stiffly nodding to the people sitting there, and then took the time and the opportunity to count the heads. Himself and Simon not included, there were four grown men, five grown women and six children – four boys and two girls, and apparently none of them older than about ten years of age – crammed inside the four walls.

Speaking of walls, there were no windows – and why _should_ there be? It wasn't like there was anything outside to look at, them being underneath the snow and all. The room was lit by lamps in the ceiling, giving off a bluish light, and the flames and sparks from the fireplace. Simon was still in his chair in front of it, looking out of place as always, his eyes darting around the room.

"So what brings you to St. Albans?"

Mal jumped at the sound of John Hensley's voice, and mentally kicked himself for allowing the man to surprise him like that. Of course he would ask questions, what else would you expect? In fact, the deafening silence coming from everybody else in the room, was a whole lot more disturbing.

"Work," he answered truthfully.

Hensley raised his eyebrows slightly. "You won't find work in the direction you were headed. Only wasteland that way for miles on." He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with the other men. "Unless of course your work is more of the under-the-radar sort of thing."

In his mind Mal debated whether he should dare to throw him a look or not, but decided on the first option. He was a good liar, and even if they didn't believe him, he knew that look would still be enough to make them back away.

Hensley didn't even blink. "Oh, we see them all the time," he explained matter-of-factly. "The smugglers." He shrugged, grabbed a pipe lying on the table and began stuffing it with dried leaves probably meant to pass as tobacco. "Who else would come here? And no," he added before Mal had the chance to say anything, "I don't know where they hide their stuff. If I had I would've taken it for myself." He lit his pipe and puffed on it. "And you wouldn't have blamed me for it."

With a slight nod he gestured towards the kids who had resumed their playing in front of the fireplace. Simon was still in his chair next to them, watching them with a soft smile on his face.

Mal admittedly was a little taken aback. He had not expected the conversation to go in this direction, and he was still thinking about how to respond, when Hensley just continued, "You don't look the part, though." He pointed with his pipe at Simon. "And he _certainly_ doesn't."

He clearly wasn't expecting a response, because he just offered up his pipe to Mal, who declined by shaking his head. He smoked the occasional cigar now and then, but pipe… no. Hoping to lead the conversation another way, he asked, "So how come you know what the weather's like when you're cooped up down here?"

What a fabulously stupid question! Again he wanted to kick himself.

Behind his pipe Hensley grinned. He looked older with that pipe, Mal mused, though he guessed the man was hardly more than thirty-five. "I'll show you," he said, rising from his seat and waving him along.

He led him through a door into another, smaller room. The only thing there was a control panel surrounded by several monitors. Hensley pulled out a chair in front of it, sat down and pushed a few buttons, and the monitors came to life. At first Mal thought there were something wrong with them. The only thing he saw was waves of white and grey. Then he realized it was snow. Apparently the blizzard was already upon them.

"Live feed," Hensley more or less needlessly explained. "From cameras placed around the village. There used to be more, but they tend to break down."

"The storm is here already?"

Mal turned around to see Simon's lanky frame fill the doorway. He hadn't heard him arrive and been unaware of his presence before he spoke. The doctor stepped inside and moved closer to the monitors, eyed wide with surprise and shock.

"That it is," Hensley said. "Good thing I spotted you when I did. You'd've been caught in it for sure."

"Will the others be okay?" Simon asked, keeping his eyes glued to the screens.

"_Serenity_'s a space ship," Mal replied. "A little snow won't hurt."

"How long will it last?" The doctor's next question was directed at Hensley.

He shrugged. "Hard to tell. Anything from a few hours to a week."

"A _week?_" There was panic in Simon's voice, whether he'd made an attempt to hide it or not.

"You're welcome to stay here for as long as it lasts," Hensley reassured him.

"Yeah, we'll be safe here," Mal added, though he was pretty sure that was not what worried Simon.

He was right. "You told Zoë to come look for us if…"

"She won't take the shuttle out in this weather," Mal interrupted him. "She ain't stupid. We'll be safe and they'll be safe, no worries."

"And Jayne?"

"What about 'im?"

"He's very sick, Mal. I gave him a shot of antibiotics and instructed Zoë to give him another, but if it doesn't do the trick…"

"Well, it's not like we can do much about it, is there?" Mal interrupted him again, and hoped he didn't come across as _too_ cynical. But really, what was the point of worrying about things you couldn't change? "We'll just have to sit it out, I s'pose."

Hensley was looking at Simon with renewed interest. "You a medic or something?"

"I'm a doctor," Simon replied.

Hensley nodded, but asked no more questions. They returned to the other room and were met by Hensley's wife, Jennifer. "I hope sleeping on the floor will suffice," she said apologetically.

"Of course," Mal reassured her.

"And I don't have much food to offer you, I'm afraid. Though luckily we've been saving up a little extra, Christmas being just around the corner and all."

Mal glanced sideways at Simon and could easily read from his face that the prospect of robbing these people of their Christmas dinner horrified the young doctor just as much as it did him. He rummaged through his pockets and found the wrapped bars of protein they'd brought for provision, and handed them to their hostess, "Please include these in the meal, ma'am."

She smiled a somewhat relieved smile and headed back to the stove.

"So what do you do for a living here?" Simon asked. Mal closed his eyes for a second. At least the doctor's questions were more ignorant than his own.

"We mine," Hensley said. "The soil of the planet's full of minerals. You only have to dig through the snow to find them." A heavy sarcasm had found its way into his voice. "And our beloved Alliance government pays us in food and supplies to do the job for them."

Simon wisely shut his mouth after that. He returned to the chair by the fire, but Mal remained at his chosen spot in the centre of the room. He sensed the tension emitting from everybody there, but something told him his and Simon's presence was not what had caused it. These people had all but given up, accepted their fate, succumbed to it.

The Alliance had succeeded here. It had crushed their spirit.

His eyes fell upon the other Hensley brother, Richard, who hadn't moved from his cot in the corner at all. He sat propped up against the wall, his legs covered by a heavy blanket, his eyes staring out into the air, never focusing on anything. There was a haunted look in those eyes, and Mal knew.

This was the one.

The reason these people lived here.

He looked away.

Then suddenly the sound of someone singing pierced the gloomy atmosphere. Not loud or proudly, but softly and hushed. Mal turned around and identified Jennifer Hensley as the source. She seemed lost in her task of cooking; possibly not even aware that she sang out loud.

"_Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o'er the plains…"_

Mal felt himself tense.

He wished she'd picked a different song.

* * *

_**A/N: **Hope you're still in the mood for a Christmas fic in January ;-) I'm sorry this is taking so long. - MK_


	4. Chapter 4

His mother had not been much of a singer, Mal recalled, but sung she had. On Sundays mostly, and particularly at Christmas.

"_And the mountains in reply, echoing their joyous strains…"_

He could hear her now, and he could see their living room back at the homestead, and all the flickering lights on the Christmas tree – and it was a happy memory and as such a painful one, and yet for some reason he didn't immediately push it away

And, yes, it was _that _tree, and he remembered the Christmas when Charlie, the ranch hand, had taken him out to get it. There were no forests to speak of on Shadow, and not that many suitable trees, and so the trip had been long, or at least that was how he remembered it, but then again he'd just been a small boy at the time, so who really knew? They'd spent at least _one_ night out under the stars, though, and Charlie had told him wild stories by the campfire, stories he was certain his mother would not approve of.

Or maybe, in hindsight, she would. In many ways he saw his mother in a different light now. And Charlie too, for that matter. Now he seemed larger than life, someone he had adored so many years ago, who'd seemed old and wise, though he'd probably only been in his late twenties. And by the next Christmas he was dead, crushed to death in a cattle stampede, and Mal recalled how his mother had brought him along to visit his young widow on Christmas Eve, bringing gifts and food, because she always took good care of her employees – and that was when he'd first learned of that bittersweet taste that always accompanied the sweetness of the holidays.

He still loved Christmas back then though, and he wasn't quite sure when he'd stopped loving it. Even in the trenches during the war, Christmas had come as a sweet release.

It must have been when they lost.

Everything else was lost then, so why not the magic of Christmas too?

* * *

"_Glo-o-o-o-o-ria, in excelsis Deo…"_

In a flashing moment Simon thought he heard a different voice, one that sounded almost angelic, but he quickly realized it was only his memories playing tricks on him. Regan Tam had had a strong voice, one that could carry a tune, but it probably hadn't sounded as angelic as he remembered it.

Everything still came flooding back, though: The living room of the Tam estate, the huge Christmas tree (because it _had _to be bigger than the Cambersons's), his mother singing, and River playing the piano, untouched and still innocent, or maybe not, because how could a mind like that ever be truly innocent? But still, she was River, and even though it was getting harder all the time to picture her like that, he could still see her there.

And his parents… He didn't often think about them these days. He focused so much on River, on keeping her safe, that there was no room for it. He'd made a choice and that choice had been his sister, and it was not one he'd ever regretted, and yet sometimes – when he allowed himself to let go of that feeling of betrayal – he still missed his mother and father. He thought about them now, wondered what they were doing, what they were thinking. About him, about River, about everything.

And like always those thoughts only filled him with bitter emptiness, and he closed his eyes and tried very hard to shake them.

* * *

It wasn't until supper was served, that Mal realized that Richard Hensley's unfocused eyes were in fact blind. When his young niece brought him his plate, he turned towards the sound of her voice and smiled at her, but it was quite obvious he couldn't see. And when he moved slightly on his cot to change his position, Mal saw he was also missing a leg.

It made him a little uncomfortable. Not the injury itself; he'd seen plenty a lot worse, but he always felt a bit awkward around wounded veterans, perhaps because he'd escaped the war almost unscathed himself – he wasn't quite sure. Some people had been lucky, some hadn't, and it was never more than a coincidence separating them – and it just didn't feel right.

Simon had noticed too. The doctor kept throwing long looks in the man's direction, and it was as if he didn't even _try _to be discreet about it. Mal knew this was just something he did when his doctor mode kicked in; he had seen it several times before, and so he said nothing of it, and Simon never said or did anything either.

Sleep eluded Mal that night, and after tossing around on the bedroll for an hour or so, trying desperately to board the train to dreamland, he gave up on the endeavor and rose, stretching his aching limbs, and glanced around the darkened room. All around him people were asleep, on the beds and cots by the walls and on the floor in front of the fire, which was somehow still burning. Simon was curled up right next to his feet, looking rather child-like and innocent in his sleep, and Mal wondered for a moment where that uptight, snotty young man he'd once met had gone. Simon sure had changed a lot.

He wondered if _he_ had to.

He doubted it.

He suddenly became aware of movement next to the fireplace, and realized he was not the only one awake, which of course explained the mystery of how the flames had not died out.

"Not much of a sleeper?" a voice asked him, a deep baritone with a peculiar resonance to it. It belonged to Richard Hensley; Mal recognized him now as his eyes gradually grew accustomed to the semi-darkness of the room.

"How do you know it's me?" he asked, mostly out of curiosity.

"I guessed," was the simple answer. "Figured it'd be you. Veterans never sleep well, especially not in an unfamiliar space, and you're one, right?"

"How d'you know? You can't even see me."

A low, bitter chuckle. "It's all in your voice. A veteran's voice always sounds rather… flat. As if all the music's gone out of it." He paused a little. "It takes one to know one, I suppose."

Mal moved closer, careful not to step on Simon or any of the others. Richard was sitting on a wooden chair, his hands clasping an iron stoker, and he straightened his back and shot out his chin when he heard Mal's approach. "Lieutenant Richard Hensley, second batallion of the Independents' 23rd brigade, at your service."

"Sergeant Malcolm Reynolds," Mal greeted him back.

"Pleasure," Richard said, gesturing a little with his stoker. "Please, grab a chair if you can find one."

Mal did and sat down by the fire, facing the other man. "So, the twenty-third, huh?" he said. "I heard you guys were pretty much wiped out at Du-Khang."

Richard nodded. "Only a couple of hundred of us made it out alive. From my battalion, just me. Just me out of a thousand guys."

Mal really didn't know how to respond, so he chose to not speak at all.

"They threw everything they had at us," Richard continued. "Seekers, drones, you name it. Blew my leg right off, and then the gas took my eyesight. But I lived." He used the stoker to stir up the fire. "By God, I lived. And by God, do I wish sometimes I hadn't."

Mal still said nothing.

Richard turned his head back towards him. "How 'bout you, Sergeant Reynolds?"

"Kept my health, more or less," Mal replied truthfully.

"So you were in 'til the bitter end?"

"That's right."

"You fight in the Valley?"

Mal paused for a second. "Yes."

Richard sighed and shook his head. "I wished I'd been there."

"No," Mal replied, "you don't."

This time it was Richard who remained quiet, at least for a moment or two. He leaned forwards and felt with his hand for something he had stashed away under his chair. He pulled out an old bottle with a handwritten label. "See if you can find some glasses, will you?" he said.

Mal stood and carefully made his way to the cupboards and back, zigzagging his way in between the sleeping forms on the floor, collecting two small glasses. Richard had opened the bottle by the time he got back and held it out towards him. "Pour us a glass, Sergeant. It tastes like yak piss, I'm afraid – it's hard to get your hands on the good stuff out here – but it'll make you warm inside."

Smiling, Mal poured the alcohol and placed one of the glasses in Richard's hand. "To the glorious dead," he said, and they both saluted and knocked back their drinks.

It _did_ taste like yak piss, or at least Mal thought so, seeing as he'd never really tasted yak piss, but as promised it also gave him that relaxing sensation that strong alcohol was supposed to give you.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Then a grimace of pain flashed across Richard's face and he shifted slightly in his chair.

"Are you alright?" Mal asked him.

"Phantom pains," Richard muttered. "You know, I used to think those couldn't be real, but they are. Nine years down the road, and I still feel the leg that's not really there."

"I'm sorry."

Richard waved him off. "I lived, right? I'm one of the lucky ones. Though sometimes I think that maybe I'm not. That the lucky ones are them that died."

Mal didn't answer, but he knew the feeling. He refilled the glasses and they downed another drink, not saluting this time. There was no need.

"So when I returned home a cripple, they took my land," Richard said. "All my property. Said I owed them; that I had to pay for the damage I'd caused. Now Johnny," he waved his hand in his sleeping brother's general direction, "he never fought in no war. He stayed at home, took care of the business, paid his taxes. But d'you think the government cares about that? Everyone remotely related to me got dumped on this ice rock. Because of what _I _did." His fingers tightened around the glass. "And now he has to raise his young ones out here, where there's no hope for a better future, and the gorram Alliance's got him strung out on that weed he's smoking."

"The weed? What's in it?"

"Hell if I know. But it keeps them relaxed. Takes the edge off, you know. But I don't touch it." He shook his head. "No, sir, I've got my yak piss, and otherwise I prefer to feel the pain."

After that, they just drank.


End file.
